himself to his situation, he tried to sleep but found, paradoxically, that it was too dark.
He thought of what it was like to lie in bed and watch the play of light and shadow on the ceiling: the glare of passing headlights, the gradual passage of the moon, the winking blue or red of neon outside a cheap hotel window, all the things that conspired to prevent the darkness of the night from being perfect.
He sighed in exasperation, and she must have realized what he was thinking. "There is nothing quite like it, you know."
"Like what?" Bolan asked.
"Like being hostage to someone's whim, simply because he has a gun..."
"I'm sure," Bolan replied, not knowing what else to say, but feeling the need to say something to keep her talking.
"I'm almost used to it." Her voice sounded uncertain. It echoed hollowly off the walls of the van. "No, I'm not, actually. I don't know why I always say that."
"Maybe that's the only way you can deal with it."
"I suppose."
"How long have you carried a gun?"
"A year. Almost..."
"What drove you to it?"
"Never mind. I don't want to talk about it." She lapsed into a silence that sounded as if it were meant to be permanent.
They rode without speaking for a quarter of an hour.
Bolan found himself trying to visualize her. It had been just a few hours since he'd seen her, but he was unable to do it. Her face kept drifting in and out of focus. It hovered there, just beyond the reach of his mind, fluttering like a phony ghost at Halloween.
Every time he pushed toward it, it slipped away, teasing him with its impermanence.
When the silence was broken again, it was she who broke it. "What is Charles Harding to you?" Her voice was so soft, he wasn't sure he had understood the question.
"Did you say something?" he asked.
"I asked you what Charles Harding was to you." She snapped it precisely this time.
"Right now, a question mark in an empty box. Why?"
"You tried to help him at the airport. I was just wondering why, that's all."
"Actually I wasn't. If I was trying to help anybody, it was a thousand innocent people who were walking into the middle of a terrorist attack."
"I don't believe that, you know. I just don't."
"Believe what you want."
"You really should tell me."
"Why should I tell you anything? You know my name and I don't know yours. You know a lot more about me than I do about you. And I'm not in the habit of sharing my life story with total strangers, kidnappers or not."
"You're not being kidnapped. Don't be so melodramatic."
"What do you call it?"
"What difference does it make what I call it? Labels don't mean anything, anyway. And my name is Marisa."
The truck hit a particularly rough bump, and he landed hard on his tailbone as the truck bed twisted and bounced. Bolan groaned and wriggled around to lie on his side.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I've been better."
"I'm used to it, I guess. Lying in a truck in the dark, I mean. I can control my body. It's almost as if I know where the bumps are before we hit them."
"Bully for you."
"Don't be bitter."
"Whatever you say."
Bolan's jaw slammed shut like a mausoleum door.
He heard her shift position, and a moment later he felt her hands groping past his hip. He didn't know what she was after until the handcuffs clicked.
"I really shouldn't have done that..."
"I'll never tell," Bolan said.
"No, I mean it. You have to promise you won't try to get away."
"I'm not about to jump out of a speeding truck in the middle of the night, if that's what you mean. Other than that, I'm not making any promises."
"I have a gun, you know."
He reached up to take off the blindfold. "What do you mean?"
She seemed genuinely puzzled. She levered a shell into the chamber of an automatic pistol, and Bolan didn't need to see her to know it.
"Look, I..." He stumbled to a halt. It seemed as if he couldn't say anything without tripping all over himself. There was something about her that mystified him. "Funny, isn't it, how much we take
He thought of what it was like to lie in bed and watch the play of light and shadow on the ceiling: the glare of passing headlights, the gradual passage of the moon, the winking blue or red of neon outside a cheap hotel window, all the things that conspired to prevent the darkness of the night from being perfect.
He sighed in exasperation, and she must have realized what he was thinking. "There is nothing quite like it, you know."
"Like what?" Bolan asked.
"Like being hostage to someone's whim, simply because he has a gun..."
"I'm sure," Bolan replied, not knowing what else to say, but feeling the need to say something to keep her talking.
"I'm almost used to it." Her voice sounded uncertain. It echoed hollowly off the walls of the van. "No, I'm not, actually. I don't know why I always say that."
"Maybe that's the only way you can deal with it."
"I suppose."
"How long have you carried a gun?"
"A year. Almost..."
"What drove you to it?"
"Never mind. I don't want to talk about it." She lapsed into a silence that sounded as if it were meant to be permanent.
They rode without speaking for a quarter of an hour.
Bolan found himself trying to visualize her. It had been just a few hours since he'd seen her, but he was unable to do it. Her face kept drifting in and out of focus. It hovered there, just beyond the reach of his mind, fluttering like a phony ghost at Halloween.
Every time he pushed toward it, it slipped away, teasing him with its impermanence.
When the silence was broken again, it was she who broke it. "What is Charles Harding to you?" Her voice was so soft, he wasn't sure he had understood the question.
"Did you say something?" he asked.
"I asked you what Charles Harding was to you." She snapped it precisely this time.
"Right now, a question mark in an empty box. Why?"
"You tried to help him at the airport. I was just wondering why, that's all."
"Actually I wasn't. If I was trying to help anybody, it was a thousand innocent people who were walking into the middle of a terrorist attack."
"I don't believe that, you know. I just don't."
"Believe what you want."
"You really should tell me."
"Why should I tell you anything? You know my name and I don't know yours. You know a lot more about me than I do about you. And I'm not in the habit of sharing my life story with total strangers, kidnappers or not."
"You're not being kidnapped. Don't be so melodramatic."
"What do you call it?"
"What difference does it make what I call it? Labels don't mean anything, anyway. And my name is Marisa."
The truck hit a particularly rough bump, and he landed hard on his tailbone as the truck bed twisted and bounced. Bolan groaned and wriggled around to lie on his side.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I've been better."
"I'm used to it, I guess. Lying in a truck in the dark, I mean. I can control my body. It's almost as if I know where the bumps are before we hit them."
"Bully for you."
"Don't be bitter."
"Whatever you say."
Bolan's jaw slammed shut like a mausoleum door.
He heard her shift position, and a moment later he felt her hands groping past his hip. He didn't know what she was after until the handcuffs clicked.
"I really shouldn't have done that..."
"I'll never tell," Bolan said.
"No, I mean it. You have to promise you won't try to get away."
"I'm not about to jump out of a speeding truck in the middle of the night, if that's what you mean. Other than that, I'm not making any promises."
"I have a gun, you know."
He reached up to take off the blindfold. "What do you mean?"
She seemed genuinely puzzled. She levered a shell into the chamber of an automatic pistol, and Bolan didn't need to see her to know it.
"Look, I..." He stumbled to a halt. It seemed as if he couldn't say anything without tripping all over himself. There was something about her that mystified him. "Funny, isn't it, how much we take
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